


See the Man in the Wolf

by Diary



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - Teen Wolf (TV) Fusion, Angst and Feels, Bechdel Test Pass, Bisexual Llewellyn Watts, Family, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Getting Together, Introspection, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mild Stream of Consciousness, Period Typical Attitudes, Romance, Self-Reflection, Wendigos, Werewolf Llewellyn Watts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28208649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: AU. Looking around as if he just confessed to something along the lines of being a werewolf, Inspector Brackenreid declares, “You shouldn’t have told me that.” Complete.
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	See the Man in the Wolf

Sniffing the shoe Parker found, Llewellyn knows the owner was near the body at or shortly after time of death.

Aside from this, he doesn’t want to stop smelling the shoe, and that’s- different.

He supposes it’s a quirk of life that only the truly dangerous people have the most captivating smells.

Clarissa’s scent changed over time, from woolly warm to slightly bitter to harsh and itching, but there was still the urge to curl up against her and breathe it in like when he was a child. Detective Murdoch is always vaguely astringent, the type similar, he’s come to believe, to how some humans enjoy too-hot food; he knows what would happen if Catholic, respected Detective Murdoch found out about werewolves.

Dr Ogden, her scent is outright pleasant, but it’s the type of pleasant a person could take or leave, not like the scents of Danny and Hubert. There are nights he wakes up crying, sure he was smelling the former’s, only to find his nose assaulted by the lack of it, and sweet Hubert, far from Toronto, he looks forward to the day they’ll be able to meet again, and he can take in the buttery, warm scent with a hint of floating bubbles.

Hopefully, that is. He tries not to hope for things, but he desperately hopes Hubert’s hasn’t changed too much. After Danny was killed, Hubert’s became a little muskier, a little muted, but still wonderful.

The owner of this shoe, his scent is a mixture akin to burning wood, gentle soap, and anxiety that most other humans would be unable to discern.

Since this man might be a murderer, he knows he best put thoughts of trying to ease this anxiety away unless it’s necessary to get a confession.

He can’t help but hope the owner of this shoe isn’t the killer.

Irrational thought, he chides himself. Why am I even thinking such things?

Dr Hart, he focuses on her. Her scent is extremely harsh, but there’s a- she’s not a doctor, he remembers. If she were, her scent would be different, he’s sure. Negroes in this country, he’s found, save for little babies and one foreigner he once met, always have a blunt sting to their scent, the product, he’s come to realise, of being always lesser, not because they are lesser but, because, no matter what they do, how much better they are, or how kind and non-domineering some white people can be, society will never let them just be; they must be less than they are and than they could be.

He finds hers calming. For all he knows better than to let her know this, he always knows what’s she’s feeling and has a general idea what she’s thinking. If her scent were more along the lines of Dr Ogden’s, he’d be happy for her, but he doubt he’d find her near as calming.

Keeping his nose on her, he talks to Crabtree about the victim’s stamp collection.

The victim ardently loved it.

Crabtree would make a good hunter, and this is why, after he became a full-time employee of Station 4, he’s tried to ignore Crabtree’s pleasant scent. Kind-hearted, fair-minded Crabtree believes in so many things, some which are real, and some that even werewolf him finds ridiculous. If Crabtree knew werewolves were real- there’s a chance Crabtree would stick to the code of one of the fairer hunter families.

A picture interests the inspector, and he finds himself staring at a man with his arm wrapped around the victim.

He knows he can’t know, but something inside insists the scent of the shoe owner belongs to the handsome man.

“That’s my butcher!”

Butcher. Some humans literally need meat to survive. He became weaker when he tried adopting a vegetarian diet. Meat can’t- meat is dead animals, often killed. It’s a fact. Some creatures must die in order for others to thrive, to live, even.

Still, he hopes this butcher is kind to any living animals killed by the man’s own hand. He hopes he’s good at his craft and makes the dead animals he slices and possibly cooks taste good.

Come to think of it, he’s not sure exactly what all a butcher’s duties are.

…

In the morning, they go to the butcher.

He may or may not be the killer, but he is the owner of the shoe, and he was around the victim very near the time of death.

Later, he’ll figure out how to lead the others to this information, but for now, he tries to focus on the man.

Jack Walker.

He likes looking at people’s eyes, but if he does it for long, his other senses become erratic.

Beautiful blue eyes, Jack has.

The hidden anxiety, it shares a space with genuine confidence. Determination.

Failure is an option, and knowing this can be an anxious thing, but trying is important.

He wonders if Dr Hart and this Jack would get along. Nothing romantic, of course, he can smell the lack of interest in the nearby pretty ladies on the man, but-

“Inspector, here for the usual?”

He might be a little insulted this Jack is surprised when told they’re here on business. Irrational, but did this man honestly think he wouldn’t be quickly tracked down between the shoe and the picture and the smell of him mingled with the victim?

This turns to pity, however, when Jack asks, “How’d it happen?”

There’s insistence, _he’s not the killer_ , brewing, too.

_You know how it happened. You were there. You touched his neck, you grieved, you’re still grieving. And it’s not a killer’s grief, it’s the grief of someone who can’t fully grieve. You don’t have all the facts, either._

These thoughts are jolted out by the hint of wolfsbane invading his nose, and he finds himself catching the bit of yellow-coated meat Jack flicked at him without even realising it’s happening until it’s done.

Trying not to shiver at the coldness, he takes in the facts: Murdoch and the inspector didn’t notice this, and Jack is easily convincing the latter that Jack himself isn’t homosexual.

Discreetly eating the bit of meat only helps the unsteadiness somewhat. The coldness remains.

A hunter?

It’s not outside of the realm of sensibility that a hunter would give a werewolf an antidote against the smell of more dangerous wolfsbane, especially when human coppers are around. Purple or white is near Jack’s person, either as a means of protection or to actively attack, but- Why this healing strand of yellow, too?

Jack is human, he’s sure of this, but the fact he didn’t notice Jack coating the meat makes the coldness worsen.

Aware he might be about to do something damningly foolish, he stops the leaving detectives by asking, “Where were you last night, Mister Walker? Truthfully?”

And hunter or not, not being the victim’s killer aside, he finds Jack Walker is a dangerous man when Walker meets his eyes and lies with a steady heartbeat, “I was at home.”

…

You humans, he wants to snap at Inspector Brackenreid.

Shifters have never particularly made a fuss about biological sex when it comes to mating. Species, yes, certain people objecting to certain other people for a variety of reasons, yes, but if two shifters of the same species want to rut against one another, to mate, generally, it doesn’t matter to other shifters.

He’s a little unfair, he knows. Shifters outwardly go along with the norms, the social mores, humans set, by and large. The ones that don’t are either feral or even more likely to end up killed by hunters.

A good detective could lose his job, because, he was at the party the night the victim was killed, but he’s not the killer. A human could, should, and Detective Murdoch more-or-less _has_ , figured this out.

But he did attempt to tamper with evidence, to hide the fact he was at the party, and given he won’t talk, won’t risk the reputation and livelihoods of the other party-goers, the inspector is using this as an excuse to hold him in the cells.

Murdoch looks at him when he protests this. Murdoch is unsettled by the unfairness of the inspector’s prejudices, though, few if any prejudices are fair, he supposes, but Murdoch is never going to let go of the resentment and distrust from he himself once tampering with evidence and obstructing a police investigation.

He was wrong, he’ll admit, but he’d do it again. His brothers will always be more important than his job.

Once, he thought the same thing of his sister, but- He stands by the thought.

If he can somehow get Murdoch to help him- who cares if this detective is homosexual, he wants to ask. Who cares if the party was full of homosexual men? One of them might have been the killer, but in a party where everyone only wants the opposite sex, a killer could emerge, too.

The inspector, is the answer, Murdoch, to some extent, and many humans in the position of wealth and power.

Nevertheless, after the inspector storms off, he suggests to Murdoch, “Detective Scott might be more forthcoming if I speak to him alone.”

And, “I agree,” is the response that tells him Murdoch will keep the inspector away from the cells, from knowing he’s visiting them, long enough for him to have a proper chance.

…

Detective Scott is an honourable man.

He lies to the detective, or at least, he promises things he can’t guarantee, that naming the other men will result in Detective Scott going free with no record of him ever being held, and the detective sees through this, but this isn’t what keeps the other man quiet.

Don’t take him away from all the people who need honourable officers of the law, he wants to say to Inspector Brackenreid. He’s willingly sitting in a cell when he could likely get himself free, because, it’s the best way to- well, not exactly to protect the other party-goers, the man’s smart enough to know they’ll get names eventually, but Detective Scott is answering to his own conscience.

“So the men I name can be sitting where I am,” Detective Scott had said. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

He wonders if Detective Scott being a homosexual means often twisting the truth to his inspector and fellow coppers.

Not like me, he decides.

Being homosexual doesn’t give a person insight into cases that have to be explained away as other than they are or, at least, not frequently. He guides Constable McNab to a cobbler, and then, he uses this to reveal Jack Walker as the owner of the shoe to the others.

He truly isn’t a confrontational person most of the time, but when he and Inspector Brackenreid go back to the butcher stand, he finds himself saying, “I understand you’re missing a shoe, Mister Walker.”

Jack Walker, if his scent can be trusted, doesn’t hate him.

Mostly the other man is trying to resign himself to- he doesn’t want to think about that anymore than Walker does.

Walker comes quietly. He admits to being lovers with the victim. He talks about finding him dead. Checking his pulse.

He doesn’t seem to pay much mind to the werewolf sitting beside him in the interrogation room. No wolfsbane on him, no hatred, and all the fear seems to be for the horrible situation human dictation of morality has put him in.

He doesn’t affect Walker much, but Walker’s smell is too easy to get lost in. His heartbreak over the dead man’s death, over the fact their relationship ended before, he wants to try to ease it.

As if a possible hunter would ever allow that, a self-disgusted part of him counters. Even if he’s not a hunter, he had dangerous wolfsbane. At best, it’s truly only for protection, and at worst, he’s maliciously hurt shifters with it before. Even with the former, the fact he feels it necessary-

There are few truly dangerous shifters, and most of them go after other shifters, not humans.

Hunters will never accept this.

A werewolf puts a possible hunter in a cage.

Detective Scott is sitting in a nearby one, and the two men only have a vague recognition of one another.

“Careful of your eyes, detective,” Walker quietly says. “If you and the others go through my shop, I’ve stored some aconite for a friend of mine. I noticed it irritated your eyes the first time you and the others came to interview me.”

…

Stamps are turning out to be an important puzzle piece in this case.

He finds himself back in the holding area. Detective Scott is lying down, and Jack- Mister Walker is sitting glumly on the bed.

“What do you know about Mister Paxton’s stamp collection?”

“That it was a substitute for the children he would never have,” is the frank response.

Stop being interesting, he’s tempted to order. You can’t fairly blame me for you being in this situation. I didn’t cultivate the idea homosexuality is unnatural, immoral, and disgusting, and even me being a werewolf, any good detective, like Murdoch, Crabtree, and the inspector are, would have eventually discovered your involvement in all this.

It’s not as if Jack Walker is intentionally making himself smell like this, making his heart beat in a rhythm that he himself wants to tap his fingers to, that his eyes are smart, clever, and perhaps, deceptively unguarded.

What other observations does this Jack have about people? Does he like to read? Does-

“It appears some of his rare stamps are missing. What if the killer was not one of the party-goers but someone who wanted Mister Paxton’s stamps?”

There’s no contempt when Walker responds, “You don’t think he sold them? He did like the thrill of the trade.”

“We thought of that. It doesn’t account for all of them.”

Detective Scott doesn’t know anything about the stamps.

He knows Jack does, but he’s still surprised when Jack says, “I know where he might have kept them.”

And then, Jack Walker stands up. He walks over to the bars, and he makes no attempt to modify his stance.

“I have an errand to run, detective. It needs to get done tonight.”

Is your errand attempting to kill the werewolf detective who put you in this cage, he wonders.

It wouldn’t end well for you, he adds to the thought. I grew up without a pack, but I’m not feral, and I’m not some weak omega. Three things cannot long be hidden: The sun, the moon, and the truth, and the truth is that I deplore violence but can and will respond to it in kind if it’s truly a matter of protecting myself or others.

Glancing over at Detective Scott, he says, “I don’t have the authority to release you.”

Without opening his eyes, the honourable detective states, “I haven’t heard a thing.”

“Take me to Owen’s. I’ll show you where the stamps are if you give me an hour alone afterward to run an errand.”

Walker doesn’t flinch when he comes over to the bars. “Let you out, you mean.”

“I’ll come back,” Walker says with a steady heartbeat. “I promise.”

…

In the hansom, Walker asks, “Would it be rude to ask what exactly you are?”

He’s surprised, but he supposes, perhaps, he shouldn’t be. “You don’t know?”

“No. I’m not very well-acquainted with your kind, detective. My cousin is married to a wendigo. I mostly know about them rather than any other non-human people. They have three children, my cousin and her husband, and when she was pregnant with the youngest, she became bedridden.”

“I kept the children when I could. My mother’s not in bad health, but at her age, she couldn’t look after two young children by herself for long. They have some schoolmates who aren’t human. Without going into too much detail, a werecoyote became a problem. I obtained the purple wolfsbane for protection and the yellow for if one of their playmates should need it.”

“I’m a werewolf,” he says.

There isn’t curiosity at this. There aren’t any questions about his pack.

Perhaps, Walker has gathered he’s an omega.

They arrive at the house, and Walker produces the stamps.

“I have to get these to Constable Crabtree.” He starts to leave only for Walker to stop him.

“I’ve kept my part of the deal, Detective Watts.”

Are you afraid of me lying, spinning a story of you escaping, he wonders, or do you just not understand- Perhaps, Detective Scott informed this Jack of the earlier lies, the promise of release without record he couldn’t guarantee.

“What kind of errand is it you want to do?”

“If I don’t visit my mother on Monday evening, she’ll worry. I don’t like to upset her.”

Oh, I like you, hits him. You’re not just interesting, you’re kind.

It’s rather inconvenient to discover himself liking a murder suspect even if he knows for sure the man isn’t the murderer.

“If you don’t come back, I will lose my job. You understand?”

“I understand.”

He walks out of the house.

…

He finds himself surprised when Jack Walker comes back ten minutes before the hour is up.

Hopefully, this case will be over soon, he tells himself.

If not, the smell of Jack might start to permeate the station house, and that won’t do at all.

The cell door clinks shut, and again, he finds himself catching the wrapped food before consciously realising it’d been thrown.

Flipper pie.

Normally, he would have smelled it earlier, and if Brackenreid doesn’t let Jack go soon, he’s going to have to try to get him transferred to the cells of a different station house.

“I appreciate what you did, detective.”

Taking a deep breath, he says, “Give me the egg custard tarts, too. I’ll hand them to the honourable detective. His cell is quite a distance in comparison to where I’m standing.”

Behind him, Detective Scott sits up.

Getting off the bed, Walker walks over, and digging them out of his pocket, he hands them through the bars.

Truthfully, he’d rather have the tarts than the pie, but out of the three of them, he has no claim of unfairness to lobby.

“Thank you,” Jack says.

Giving the tarts to the detective, he leaves.

…

The case is solved, but Detective Scott is no longer a detective.

Because of his own inspector.

You like Dr Hart, but someday, you’ll do the same to her, won’t you? What about Murdoch? Is he one of the few you’d protect the way you would your sons, or is being a Catholic, having an unconventional wife, will those things lose him your championship one day when someone high comes after him? Crabtree? Is he normal enough, moral enough, that you’ll stand for him?

All you would have to do, he despairingly thinks, is keep quiet about something that’s hurt no one. I tampered with evidence, I obstructed a police investigation, and yet, I’m still around. I’ve gone through Detective Scott’s records, and he’s never been accused of misconduct, there’s no evidence he’s ever taken a bribe, he’s always treated suspects as fairly as possible. All he did was try to keep the fact he’d rather mate with men than women a secret, because, he knew it could lose him everything important.

A brave man would stand for the honourable detective, but this sort of bravery is the type he’s long accepted he’ll never be.

…

Going to Jack Walker’s apartment, he keeps trying to figure out why he’s doing this.

Never mind it’s objectively stupid for a werewolf to go to the dwelling of a human who hasn’t been established not to be a hunter, what, he asks himself, do you think is the best outcome?

Walker isn’t likely to kill him, imprison him, and/or torture him; if so, he likely would have already tried, and unlike Glenn Scott, he himself is still a detective. Most sane hunters don’t go after coppers without a good reason, without backing from a major hunter family, and even if someone believed he did kill Danny’s killer in cold blood, that it was covered up, he still- most of the codes, he’d still more-or-less fit into them.

Human Baker killed more humans than he has. Human Baker killed out of sadism, and if he had been the one to kill Baker (sometimes, he imagines he had, and he doesn’t know how he feels about this), it would have been out of either revenge for his dead brother or to protect his still living one.

The best outcome, then- that Jack Walker might find him interesting, too. He’s not kind, he knows, but perhaps, Jack would appreciate the fact he strives to not be cruel. That he might one day sit at Mrs Walker’s dinner table, might play with the three little half-breeds.

“You,” he feels the need to voice this sentiment aloud, “are a damned fool.”

And yet, he still goes to the apartment. He still knocks on the door, and he still doesn’t leave as fast as he physically could have before it’s opened.

“Detective Watts,” is the surprised but polite greeting.

“Mister Walker. I wanted to thank you for your help with the case. It was- instrumental in catching Mister Paxton’s killer.”

Ambiguous wording. Thank you for not attempting to harm or otherwise impede me, or thank you for your efforts. Both.

I should clarify, is the thought that’s wrapped in feelings of helplessness.

“I’m glad,” is Walker’s sincere response.

The awkwardness in the air grows, but then, the air changes.

Oh, hits him.

He wants Jack Walker. He wants to kiss him, to do other- things to and with him.

Thank you, he thinks to the universe, to God, to himself, for not having me realise this until now.

“Do you need something else from me?”

He was so focused on this realisation that it takes him a few seconds for it to become clear: Jack Walker is now seeing him as a man, not a detective, not a werewolf, but a man.

“Um. Do you mind if-” So many thoughts swirl through his head. “I call you Jack?”

A hand is put on the door frame, and he hadn’t particularly noticed the mountain ash across the door’s still until now when, using his foot, Jack disrupts the line.

Mountain ash doesn’t affect wendigos, he remembers.

Walking back inside, Jack leaves the door open with nothing to stop him from following, and so, he does.

…

Jack’s scent is overwhelming, and he wonders if he’ll ever get desensitised to it or if it’ll be the type he overindulges in and goes through withdrawal when access is severely or completely cut off.

Reaching over, Jack adjusts his tie. “Can I offer you something to drink, detective?”

“Llewellyn,” he says. “My name. I’m Llewellyn.”

The soft smile matches Jack’s pleased, somewhat tentative scent.

Jack won’t- a move has to be made if more is going to happen, and Jack won’t make it first.

Seeing him as a man doesn’t mean Jack has forgotten he’s also a detective. The fact he’s a werewolf is likely a fact unforgotten, too, but Jack could likely defend himself against a werewolf. Making an advance on a detective, however, if it were to go wrong- even if he weren’t believed, he’d know the truth when he said that the detective instigated things.

“I didn’t come here to drink. I can’t stay long tonight. But uh, I was wondering if- I’ve thought about you and I becoming close. It doesn’t seem as if you have objections to your cousin’s marriage to someone of another species.” At the very least, he’s relatively certain Jack would side with shifters over hunters if his child cousins were targeted by the latter, though, he has to remember he doesn’t actually know if the children are wendigos or might one day manifest.

There’s amusement, but it’s not the cruel kind or the vaguely pitying, protectively indulgent kind.

Jack’s eyes catch his, and he’s going to have to look away soon. It’s just too much.

“I don’t. And I wouldn’t have any objections to becoming close to you, detec- Llewellyn. You could kiss me, if you wanted to.”

Taking a deep breath does the opposite of helping steel himself, and he blames humans for always insisting this be done in stressful and simply overwhelming situations.

Moving closer, grabbing his hand, Jack brings it up to Jack’s neck.

All he’d have to do is move just a little for their lips to make contact.

 _Be brave, Lew_ _ey_ , he remembers Hubert saying once shortly after their parents took him in. There’d been a girl in the neighbourhood with beautifully braided hair and a smattering of dark freckles he would have given almost anything to be able to count, and he’d made her a card, but he hadn’t- If not for his new brothers, he never would have slipped it into her school bag.

He moves forward, and for all there’s the typical unsettling strangeness inherent in the act, it’s nice.

When they break apart, looking at him with soft eyes, Jack strokes his neck, and he finds he wants to do so much more. Wants to get even more lost in Jack’s smell, wants to be able to taste the most intimate parts of Jack.

But he’s not ready just yet.

“I understand if you need to go now,” Jack says. “Thank you. That was nice. I wouldn’t object if you came back another time. Just not on Monday evening. I sometimes spend the night at my mother’s.”

…

After he leaves, he curses himself for the bumbling way he did so.

Morning comes, a day passes, and then, a week.

He doesn’t know if Jack has a telephone or not. He could send a letter, he supposes. Simply showing up unannounced-

Though he’s already done so, he’s not sure it’d be right.

He knows Jack is unlikely to mind.

Afraid, that’s what he is.

One night, however, his radio refuses to work, and going for a walk, he finds himself passing a wine shop.

Buying what he hopes is a suitable bottle, he goes to Jack’s.

There’s no mountain ash sealing the door.

He knocks, and answering, Jack smiles. “Detective. Llewellyn.”

“I brought wine.” He doesn’t mean to thrust the bottle over, but he often doesn’t hand things over the way most people do. He supposes it’s lucky he didn’t accidentally crush or drop the egg custard tarts.

“Thank you. Come in.”

He does.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No, I’ve already had dinner. My radio is refusing to work.”

“Oh.” There’s uncertainty mixed with speckles of disbelief in Jack. “Well, you’re welcome to listen to mine. It might need a bit of tuning, however. My cousin-”

Opening his jacket, he untucks his shirt and undershirt, and Jack jumps a bit when he grabs Jack’s hand, but Jack isn’t truly scared.

Moving the hand under his shirts, up to his heart, he says, “You can trust me. I promise.”

“Why’s your heart beating so?” The hand flattens against his heart.

“I’ve never- Once, I was with a woman. It wasn’t a bad experience. She made it clear she didn’t want marriage, no babies were made, and- it wasn’t a bad experience. Shifters, they often have the predisposition to desire both man and woman. She was one of the few people I’ve found myself wanting. There was a boy once, back when I was a boy myself, but nothing came of that. I’ve never been with a man in such a way.”

Applying gentle pressure to his chest, Jack softly kisses him. “If you just want a place to sleep tonight, that’s fine. If you want more, I don’t mind going slow. I’ve been with several men before Owen. None of them hurt me, but some of them weren’t exactly kind. I value kindness in this area.”

Kissing Jack again, he feels his heart returning to normal. “I knew that was likely the case. It’s not the reason I’m here, but it makes it easier to be here. I’d like to be with you in such a way tonight.”

“I’d like that, too. Will you be sleeping here afterwards?”

“Yes.”

Slipping the hand out, Jack removes the jacket, and after hanging it up, starts to undo the tie.

…

He didn’t understand the intensity having a lover could cause until now.

Jack is lightly dosing, and he’s trying to muddle through the glorious sensations. Afterwards, he’d had to put his undershirt back on along with his underwear, but Jack had simply slipped on a pair of underwear.

All his nose can focus on is the smell of Jack and what they did. Jack’s heartbeat and breathing are comfortingly persistent in his ears.

Growing up, he shared a bed with Clarissa, and then, Hubert and Danny. There have been a few instances since he started his career that where he’s ended up sharing a bed, but they’ve been few and far in between. He’s not used to it, yet it’s largely pleasant to have Jack so close, warm, and solid beside him.

Feeling sleep creeping about, he lets it take him.

…

In the morning, after he’s had breakfast and used Jack’s water closet, Jack hands him a wrapped package. “For your lunch.” Then, he adds, “I hope you come back again.”

It’s dangerous, he can’t help but think. If hunters were to come after me, they might go after your cousin-in-law, at least, and possibly the children. The inspector was kinder towards you than he was Detective Scott, but we could both lose our jobs, our reputations, if this got out. Your mother-

He has to remind Jack of all this. “If anyone were to find out-”

“I know.” Jack’s scent and heart are steady, and fixing his tie for him, Jack continues, “Some things are worth the risk.”

And I’ll be coming back, goes through him.

Walking out, however, coldness hits him when, a few doors down, so does Crabtree.

He hadn’t smelt him last night. Now, though- that Newsome lawyer. Much like Dr Hart, he likes the fact he can tell what she’s feeling whenever he’s around her.

Bit surprising her and Crabtree are together, but stranger matches have happened, he supposes.

“Detective Watts!”

Damn it, I am a werewolf, he thinks. Why don’t I move faster when-

“George.”

Crabtree is friendly, thinks he has a lady friend, and he finds himself focusing on the fact Crabtree doesn’t know where a once murder suspect lives, that his own lady friend lives so close to such a man.

Just get to work, he orders himself.

…

George ends up enlisting him in helping with one of Jack and Miss Newsome’s fellow tenants, and a large part of him wants to say no, but there’s a possibility whoever stole this tenant’s rent could end up stealing from Jack or Miss Newsome.

The tenant, Mr Vickers, however, does make absolutely delicious snickerdoodles.

And then, he finds himself at Jack’s door, the door Crabtree saw him come out of earlier, with Crabtree in tow, and he can smell the realisation. Crabtree has pieced things together, and through some amusement, worried Jack is aware this might have happened.

Jack explains how he brings leftovers for the landlord to feed his cat, and this is what he and Crabtree need to know for sure the landlord is lying about Mr Vickers’ missing rent.

Unable to apologise, he says, “Thank you for your help, Mister Walker.”

“Not at all,” Jack responds, and he himself is relieved, through the worry, there’s no anger at him.

…

Constable George Crabtree can be naïve and fanciful, but he’s not stupid.

This doesn’t mean there isn’t a chance he can’t be convinced, especially if he’d like to believe it, and he does think Crabtree would much rather believe he’s not working with- he’s not a homosexual, but a man who nevertheless enjoys the intimate company of other men.

Crabtree doesn’t want to hear it when he starts to explain, and he’s a little offended Crabtree thinks he himself would be stupid enough to confess, but he barrels on, “I had money troubles as of late.”

“Ah,” Crabtree responds.

“I couldn’t make my rent this week. Mister Walker was kind enough to let me stay with him.”

“Money troubles happen to the best of us.”

Crabtree doesn’t believe him but is willing to accept this, for now, at least, and this is a relief. The longer an accusation isn’t made, the harder it is-

“But, uh, detective, you should know your- money troubles are safe with me.”

Sincerity.

“Thank you, George.”

It feels inadequate, but it’s all he can offer at the moment.

…

Jack lets him in when he comes back.

“Constable Crabtree is choosing to believe a story I told about having money troubles.”

“Good,” Jack softly says. Then, stronger, he continues, “I’m not ashamed. I hope you aren’t, either, but I want you to know I’m not. I realised I was- different from most of my male classmates when I was about ten. As I got older, I learned more about how. But as I told you and the others, I own my own business. I ensure my mother lives in comfort.”

“Owen wasn’t worth the risk,” Jack states with his tone matching the terrible sadness in the air. “Your inspector and Constable Crabtree along with Detective Murdoch know what I am, and right now, they’re contented to let me be. But if they object to what you’re doing with me-”

“George isn’t going to tell, and Murdoch and the inspector don’t know that part.” Stroking Jack’s arm, he continues, “Promise.”

“Then, would you like a dinner companion tonight?”

…

Jack fixes them dinner.

“Did you know about shapeshifters before your cousin married one?”

“No. Or well-” A grin crosses Jack’s face. “I played a part in Aimee and Johnson’s courtship and eventual marriage.”

“That sounds interesting.”

Checking on the wok, Jack sits down. “During university, I had a job as a sweeper. There was a morgue on my route, and one evening, I noticed it had been broken into. A sensible man- I admit I’d been drinking earlier. I went in, and I found Johnson lying wounded on the floor. He told me he needed human flesh, and I dismissed him as a mad man until-”

A warm shiver goes through him at Jack tracing around his eyes. “He managed to show his other eyes long enough for me to truly take them in. Being somewhat hungover and fearing I might have gone mad myself, I reasoned that, as taboo as it was- I helped him eat.”

“Then, I helped him get to a place that could do more for him. Afterwards, we stayed in touch. I began to see how complementary he was in comparison to my cousin, and so, one day, I arranged for the three of us to meet. It wasn’t love at first sight, but they very quickly began a deep courtship.”

“Your first instinct wasn’t to run or hurt him?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jack says. “I think the food’s ready.”

Setting the plates down, Jack continues, “I was frightened. I don’t know what all I thought in that moment. But even when hungover, I tend to think before I act.”

“I’m not too sure about that. You were hungover the night you went to Owen Paxton’s.”

Letting out a small sound, Jack pours some more tea. “Loneliness was more to blame.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“It’s who Owen was,” is the simple response. “He chafed at being careful. It didn’t matter who or what was involved, including himself. That saying about the bigger the risk, the better the reward, that came close, but even it didn’t fully apply to him. The bigger the risk, the more he wanted to take it simply, because, most men, most people, wouldn’t.”

There’s an unsettling change, and surprise goes through him when Jack adds, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Talking about my dead former lover at dinner-”

Taking Jack’s hand, he squeezes. “I brought him up. More than this, however, Jack, if you should ever wish to talk about him, I don’t mind. I’ve never lost a lover, but I’ve lost several people I cared deeply for. Loved.”

“Who have you lost?”

The question is gentle, and he knows it’s a logical progression.

Yet, he finds himself hesitating.

Squeezing his hand back, Jack says, “You don’t need to tell me, Llewellyn.”

“I’m an omega. Do you know what that means?”

“You don’t have a pack. Does that mean you don’t have a family, either?”

“In a way. Hunters with no code killed my parents when I was twelve. My sister left me. I recently found her, but she left again. I don’t know for sure where she went, but at least, I know she didn’t die all those years ago and that she also wasn’t kidnapped.”

Focusing on the food’s wonderful smell and taste, he lets himself keep going. “I have two brothers, Hubert and Daniel. Their parents took me in. Unfortunately, Danny was killed, and Hubert, he was broken. He got into some trouble with the law, partially due to me, and I got him out of Toronto. Inspector Brackenreid and some others at the station house know, but I still have my job, and my brother’s safe.”

“Human?”

“Yes. They know, knew, in Danny’s case, what I am, but their parents never did.”

“I’m sorry for your losses, too.”

Raising his cup, he toasts, “To them, and to us. May we honour their memories.”

“Cheers.” Jack clinks his own cup against his.

…

After getting off work, he goes to Jack’s.

Opening the door, Jack comments, “Your Detective Murdoch has been in the news.”

“Ah, yes. He’s not a murderer. His neighbour’s death was the result of a man with a grudge attempting to frame him.”

“Do you have anyone with a grudge against you that might try to do the same?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That’s comforting. It’d be more comforting if the answer was a decisive, ‘No,’ but-”

He meets Jack for a kiss.

“How do you feel about going out tonight? Business was very good today. I only have some lamb, and the grocer was out of beetroot.”

“Yes, that sounds good.” Withdrawing the book he got George to sign, he holds it out. “Here. For your mother.”

“Is this Constable Crabtree’s newest book?”

“Yes. He signed it, though, I didn’t give him her name.”

“Thank you, Llewellyn.” A beautiful smile crosses Jack’s face, and he can almost see the colours the scent produces. “You don’t know how much it’ll mean to her.”

“No, I don’t, but I know it’ll make you happy to give her such a gift. What restaurant or pub were you thinking of us going to tonight?”

…

When they get back from dinner, Jack asks, “Will you be staying the night?”

“Yes.”

Moving George’s book from the night-stand, Jack asks, “Did you buy this, or did Constable Crabtree give it to you?”

Knowing where this has the potential to go, he firmly answers, “It’s a gift, Jack.”

There’s an imbalance, he’s learned, one he didn’t initially notice and doesn’t bother him but might bother Jack. He doesn’t know whether Owen Paxton ever gave Jack or Mrs Walker gifts, but for all Jack cooks him meals and gives away leftovers to others, Jack will insist on paying him whenever he shows up with pretzels for both of them. They’ve always paid their own bills when they go out for dinner.

“Can you set your alarm clock? These clothes have a strong enough smell that I’m sure humans would be able to smell them.”

Sniffing the clothes, Jack nods. “You need to start bringing a spare set over or leaving some in my closet. They really haven’t noticed the times you’ve come in wearing the same clothes you wore the day before?”

“I’m sure some noticed. They simply didn’t spare much thought towards it.”

It’s something he occasionally did even before he and Jack became lovers, and he’s never got the impression then or now that anyone has thought him staying the night at a lover’s might be the reason.

After they’ve used the water closet, they get into bed, and as they share kisses, he finds his heart is steady.

Once there’s a break in the kissing, he says, “I was thinking we might try something different tonight.”

There’s excitement, curiosity, and a bit of unease radiating off Jack when he asks, “What are you thinking of?”

“Not that one position,” he assures Jack.

He’d been curious to try it, but upon the suggestion of it, Jack’s smell had made it clear how distasteful Jack found it before Jack even said the word, ‘No,’ aloud. He doesn’t know if Jack dislikes it from experience or simply finds the idea repulsive, but he’d never try to force or otherwise persuade someone to do something they found objectionable in bed.

“What do you have in mind?”

“What you allow me to do to you, I want to experience you doing to me.”

It’s odd. There’s hesitation but no real objection radiating from Jack.

Tracing designs on his chest, Jack responds, “Are you sure? It might- Before you, I’ve never been with another werewolf.”

Realisation crosses Jack before he himself can say anything. “Well, as far as I know, I’ve never been with anyone but other humans. But, Llewellyn, there’s still a chance it might hurt you, werewolf or not. With humans, even if the other partner is gentle and careful, it can be somewhat painful the first few times.”

Bringing Jack’s hand to his heart, he presses down. “I’m sure. Muscles ache in both shifters and humans when they’re exercised, but it’s required for healthy growth. Often, it eventually makes them stronger. Usually, it gets to the point the aching is absent.”

“If I don’t like it, then, I’ll know. But what we currently do, it’s a way of giving pleasure for both. Some don’t, but we do it due to an interest in one another. Affection. I want to see if this could be another way. I know, even if I don’t enjoy it, it won’t be due to you being unkind and rough.” He kisses him. “I’m sure, Jack.”

“Okay,” Jack agrees.

…

Attempting not to get completely lost in the feelings, he notes, “It seems you suffered more injuries than I.”

Chuckling, Jack finishes cleaning him up. “I didn’t suffer anything, Llewellyn.”

Once Jack lays down, he gets him to roll onto his stomach so that he can look at the scratches with his wolf eyes.

Shallow. They won’t scar. They might cause tinges of discomfort during the day, but-

“I’m tired,” Jack yawns out.

Letting Jack roll back over, he grabs his nearby undershirt and underwear.

“I wouldn’t mind doing it again,” Jack adds.

“We’re most certainly on the same page in that area.” Kissing Jack, he settles down beside him.

Along with the wondrous sensations, he finds a realisation something has fundamentally changed. About him. Within him.

It wasn’t the act, he knows. But what-

His body is ready to follow Jack’s breathing and heartbeat into sleep, and he allows it to.

…

In the morning, he looks at himself in the mirror, and he’s still him, but he sees something he doesn’t recognise.

At the station house, he inquires, “Ah, George, do I look different to you today?”

“Sir? Uh, no, sir, I can’t say you do. Why?”

“Something has changed. I’m different from who I was. Of course, everyone is a little different from who they were in the past, but- There’s been a fundamental change.”

“Right, well,” George squeezes his shoulder. “Let me know if there’s anyway I can help you investigate.”

“Thank you, George.”

…

“You have to travel on a hot air balloon,” Jack says over the telephone.

“No. I wasn’t clear. My inspector, Detective Murdoch, Dr Odgen, and Constable Crabtree have just arrived from a hot air balloon. It’s a very long story that I can’t get into at the moment, but anyway, I’m genuinely sorry I won’t be able to attend the play with you tonight.”

“That’s okay,” Jack says. “I’ll see if Miss Dapper from room 8 is free. Are you going to have a proper breakfast in the morning? Not a pretzel from that stand that opens early?”

“Some would say, considering the diet of your cousin’s husband, you’re rather judgemental.”

“Johnson only eats defrosted corpses that were healthy when they died. If he went around digging up rotting corpses like that wretched mother of his-”

“You’d insist your cousin divorce him.” Jack doesn’t hate anyone, but if there’s a chance of him ever doing so, the recipient will likely be his cousin’s mother-in-law, he’s learned.

“I’ll bring you breakfast.”

Knowing better than to point out Jack needn’t, he says, “I’ll appreciate that.”

“Goodbye, Llewellyn.”

“Enjoy the play.”

…

Coming into Jack’s, he’s grateful at being able to slip his shoes off.

“Rough day,” Jack inquires.

“Marrying a colleague is an obvious blunder, but usually, I find Detective Murdoch doing so to be one of the best things he’s done for himself. Other times, however-” Picking up Jack’s abacus, he begins rearranging the beads. “Marriage is such a strange institution. I sometimes think it brings out the worse more often than it does the better of people.”

Jack gets them settled on the couch. “You might be right. My mother and father had a good marriage, but I’ve witnessed many couples go from being in love to just barely able to tolerate one another once they wed. It’s one experience I’m not particularly sad to know I’ll never have.”

Men marrying men, women marrying women- there have been times in history when such things happened, though, it’s unlikely to be found in any of the English and English-translated historical documents; he learned it from his travels and talking to foreigners and those whose close ancestors were foreigners. He knows, if it were to ever happen in Canada, England, the States, any society built on Christian bedrocks, he shan’t live long enough to see it.

In the past, this was simply a fact, but now, he finds himself sad. He’s met other men, now, other couples, and for all marriage is often a puzzling institution, some people are simply made for it.

People often end up in a world where what they’re made for isn’t what they’ll end up doing or having, he learned when he was too young to accept it.

Having accepted it now, however, he tries to push away the sadness by asking, “Do you think you’d feel the same if you had an attraction to women?”

Jack leans back. “I don’t know.”

Then, there’s clear hesitation.

“Aimee and I- we were engaged for a short time.”

He sets the abacus down so that it doesn’t end up accidentally broken. “Your cousin?”

“You believe there’s something wrong with cousin marriages?”

“Not particularly. First cousins, there might be a higher chance of sickly children, but then, there’s always a chance a man and woman, closely unrelated, both healthy, might end up unable to conceive any healthy children. I’m surprised more than anything. Based on what you’ve said of her- does she know what you are?”

“Not in so many words,” Jack answers. “She knows I’m unlikely to ever marry. Aimee and I- she has siblings, but I’ve never been close to any of them. Her and I, though, we were playmates. When I was at university, she was studying to be a nurse. We talked about renting a cheap room together, and that turned into a conversation about marriage.”

“However, the truth is, even if I did desire women, I don’t think- she’s the closest thing to a sister I’ll ever have.”

“What exactly ended your engagement?”

The smells and laughter filling the air is wondrous as Jack answers, “Well, I was sweeping the street one night, hungover, and seeing a morgue had been broken into, I got the idea in my head to go inside.”

Following his urge, he kisses Jack.

Stroking his arm, Jack smiles, and there’s been times in the past he wished he didn’t have werewolf senses, times when they were so hard to manage, to control his reaction to them, but he’s suddenly glad he’s not like all those people who have to settle for largely visual observance. The softness and affection in the air smells even better than the smile looks; scents like this can’t be mistaken or faked, but people can make smiles and even their eyes convey things that aren’t true.

“Someone ordered some beef steaks, and then, cancelled. Would you like me to cook them for us?”

“That sounds good. Uh, Jack- um, do you ever think you might change your mind about marrying?”

“It’s not likely,” Jack answers. “Aimee, I could never want her like most men want women, but I wouldn’t marry someone, Llewellyn, wouldn’t even consider it, if I didn’t genuinely love them in some way.”

Relief floods him. “Would you like me to make the tea and stir the potatoes?”

“Yes, thank you.”

…

As much as he hopes whatever situation that irritating spy Terrence Meyers has gotten the inspector and Murdoch in will be over soon, he’s looking forward to being able to leave a little early tonight.

Jack isn’t much of a reader, more of a numbers man, but whenever Jack’s niece (cousin’s daughter, but her children call him uncle) informs him about a new book she’s read or reading, Jack will endeavour for him to read it so that he can explain what it’s about. Apparently, for all she’s an intelligent girl, she’s not so good at communicating much about the books to him.

It’s somewhat unusual having someone not get annoyed or anxious at him pacing as he talks or at him keeping his hands busy. Occasionally, when he gets too far into a thought, Jack will redirect him back, but there’s yet to be true exasperation.

Jack’s niece has good taste. The newest book she’s reading is-

“Miss Hart, can I help you with something,” Higgins asks.

Introducing a man with her, Dr Hart goes on about someone breaking into-

“Excuse me.” Coming over, he asks, “Did you say a body has been stolen from- I didn’t hear all of your conversation.”

“Detective Watts.” Dr Hart gives him a warm smile, and she’s truly relieved someone besides Higgins is taking an interest in her visit. “Yes, this is Peter Leroy, a director at a funeral home in-”

“Yes, yes, let me get a pen for my notes.”

Once he does, it’s explained: The body of young man who died during a mugging has been stolen. The man’s killer has already been hung. Someone broke into the funeral home last night, rifled through the files, and somehow, absconded with the body. No money or personal effects have been stolen. There’s yet to be any evidence anything untoward has been done to any of the non-stolen bodies.

“Sir, excuse me,” George says. “Mister Jack Walker is on the telephone for you. Something about an order you placed? If you’re busy, I can tell him-”

“No. It’s an important order. Excuse me-” Not a doctor. “Miss Hart. Mr Leroy. I’ll be back shortly.”

Picking up the phone, he says, “Detective Watts speaking.”

“Llewellyn, I’m sorry, but I need to cancel our plans. My cousin, Aimee, has taken ill, and I’m going to pay her a visit today. I won’t be back for a day or two.”

He can’t hear Jack’s heartbeat over the phone or take in his scent, but he can hear the lie in Jack’s tone.

He wasn’t with Jack last night.

“I hope your cousin is better soon. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help her or you.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry. Hopefully, she’ll be better soon. I need to go now.”

“Goodbye, Mister Walker.”

Hanging up, he goes back over to Dr Hart and her friend.

“Luckily, the police there did take finger marks of the scene,” Dr Hart says, “and they’ve agreed to have them sent over here.”

If not for the worry going through him, he’d be impressed. She must have shown her metaphorical fangs to this lackadaisical station unwilling to take the solving of crimes seriously.

Does Jack know that they kept his finger marks even after the Owen Paxton case was concluded?

He doesn’t know for certain Jack was in anyway involved, but if Jack was, would he have worn gloves? Is cousin Aimee’s family, her husband and possibly children, being targeted by hunters? Did another shapeshifter attack Jack’s cousin-in-law?

“I’ll be going through those finger marks, Miss Hart,” he says.

…

Breathing out a sigh, he looks between Jack’s finger marks and all the ones taken at the crime scene.

None of them match.

So far, there have been no witnesses. Crabtree believes it might be someone playing a morbid prank.

The victim had no blood family. He had a sweetheart who was heartbroken over his death, but she wasn’t a fiancée. His friends and colleagues pooled the money to buy him a decent headstone and coffin. Embalming had yet to be carried out.

Knowing what he knows and suspecting what he suspects, one of his first courses of action would be to establish and keep close contact with the sweetheart and friends to see if they receive any anonymous gifts and/or unsigned letters of apology.

It would be if he’d decided to try to catch whoever did this, but knowing what he knows and suspecting what he suspects, his conscience would rather he potentially let some complete stranger get away with this crime than risk someone he knows or the loved one of someone he knows even being suspected.

Perhaps, I should have given up my badge after Baker was sentenced, he thinks.

It wouldn’t have changed things, except, he’d likely be in jail for sure.

Taking a breath, he starts comparing the fingers marks from the scene to all the other finger marks they themselves have on record.

…

There’s mountain ash sealing the apartment.

He knocks, and it leaves a stinging tingle on his knuckles.

Opening the door only slightly, Jack’s face might be more painful to see than the scent coming off him. “Llewellyn.”

“Is your sister well?”

“Yes, she’s fine, thank you.”

“May I come in?”

“No. I’m sorry, Llewellyn, but no.”

“Jack-”

“If you feel the need to get your colleagues involved-”

He finds himself staring behind Jack.

Turning around, Jack quickly kneels down with a sigh. “Marie, no! He’d never hurt you. Give that here. This is Detective Watts.”

The little girl is small for her age. Either nine or ten, nine when Jack told him about her, but she might have had a birthday since, she’s short, pale but for her almost black, curly hair and deep brown eyes, and a mixture of doughy in certain areas and angularly thin in others.

Prying a raised Chinese dagger, and he’s going to be curious about that later, out of her hand, Jack urges, “Go sit with Tory, Marie. Please. She might wake and need another bottle.”

Brown eyes stare with a ferociousness he’s not surprised to find in Jack’s blood.

Kneeling down, he says, “Yes, hello. I’m Detective Jack Watts. If you haven’t figured out what I am, werewolf, is the answer. In a way, your uncle and I once worked on a case together. He gave me and the rest of my station house invaluable help.”

Glancing back, Jack gives him an exasperated look.

Marie pries the Chinese ring dagger back.

He stands. “Jack.”

Standing too, Jack steps in front of her.

“You can’t hear my heartbeat, but you’ve felt it. You can trust me. I promise. Please, let me in.”

“Llewellyn, there are things in here that-”

“Uh, yes, I know about Mister Devon Elton in the tub.”

Marie’s head pokes around Jack’s legs.

“Don’t worry, the herbs applied are keeping humans from smelling him. Your finger marks didn’t match any found at the crime scene. Either you wore gloves, or it was someone else close to you. I don’t care. The fact someone might have hurt your innocent cousin-in-law, might be after him, that I care about.”

“Marie,” Jack firmly says, “go back to your sister.”

She complies, though not before repositioning the Chinese dagger back towards him in a clear warning.

Coming over, Jack disrupts the line. “Station House 4 still has my finger marks?”

He soon spots the tub filled with ice and herbs. A good chunk of Mister Elton has already been cut up.

More importantly, over on the bed, Mr O’Quinn is sleeping fitfully with Mrs O’Quinn in an exhausted dose beside him. Near the bed is a portable bassinet, and next to it is a chair with a book.

No, not more importantly.

“There are supposed to be five, six, counting you. Seven in total. Two adults besides you, three children. Only four, five, are here. Where’s the middle?”

“With my mother,” Jack quietly answers. “Jonathan is human. For right now, at least. He nursed from Aimee as a baby, and his senses are on par with a normal human boy’s. And he’s old enough my mother is able to care for him without overstraining herself. Aimee and baby Victoria share Johnson’s diet.”

“Jonathon?”

Jack nods.

“Right. You didn’t give, or the parents didn’t, give the baby blood from Mister Elton’s corpse, did you?”

“There aren’t exactly many other options at the moment, Llewellyn,” is the tired response.

Trying not to wince, he goes over to the bed. “No matter. One night shouldn’t cause too much damage. Hopefully. If you’d take that weapon from your niece, please.”

On the bed, Mrs O’Quinn is starting to stir.

Seeing Jack has placed the Chinese ring dagger on a counter, he gives her a brief shake. “Hello, Mrs O’Quinn. Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m a friend of your cousin, and I’m going to help your husband.”

“Hello,” is the bleary response as she looks between her daughters and cousin. “You’re the detective who found Mister Paxton’s killer?”

“One of them, yes. We owe much to Ja- your cousin, Mister Walker, here.”

Stepping forward with her eyes flashing white, Marie announces, “He’s the reason we had to put Papa on the couch while Uncle Jack washed the sheets. It was his smell all over them.”

Warrior instincts aside, Marie is still a child, from what he gathers, clever but ignorant of many things that happen between adults. She doesn’t know exactly what he and Jack are, what exactly caused the smell. What she does knows is he’s a stranger to her, one her uncle put up a barrier against, and her sick, wounded father had to be deposited on the couch due to reasons- she finds it unfair that her father should have to make do with the couch just because someone else recently slept in the bed.

As for Mrs O’Quinn, she likely knew what Mister Paxton was to her cousin, but she definitely didn’t know much about him beyond him being a detective, and, perhaps, a friendly acquaintance.

It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself.

“Yes. Mrs O’Quinn, if you could move a way from your husband some. This won’t hurt him,” he promises, “but he might have a strong reaction, and I don’t want you to accidentally be struck.”

Wary, she nevertheless gets off the bed after looking over at her cousin.

Taking Mr O’Quinn’s hand, he closes his eyes. He can vaguely feel the pain flowing in the other man, and taking a deep breath, he thinks, _My spark to his. Spark to pain. Pain in exchange for spark. His pain, my health, so be the exchange._

Awful pain floods through him, and he stumbles away when a gasping Mr O’Quinn sits up, but, “Llewellyn!”, Jack’s strong, warm arms holding him upright clears most of the pain away.

He’s sat on a chair.

“I’m fine. Do you have any yellow wolfsbane? That would likely help.”

Jack rushes away, and rearranging himself in his wife’s grasp, Mr O’Quinn catches his eyes. “Thank you. But you shouldn’t have. I can’t repay you.”

Another thread weaving your friendship with Jack, he observes.

“This was repayment to someone else, Mr O’Quinn. Someone once did the same for me.”

“Here.” Jack places yellow wolfsbane in his hands. “What exactly did you do?”

“Lycanthropes have, we call it a spark, inside of them. It’s possible to temporarily imbue another person with a portion of the spark. It dissipates quickly, but while it’s in the other person, it can promote rapid healing.”

“Yes, but the cost-”

“We’re thankful,” Mrs O’Quinn interrupts her husband. “Marie, sweetie-pie, how’s your sister doing? Did we wake her?”

“No, Mama. She’s still sleeping.” Marie obediently goes into her mother’s arms. “Papa’s better now?”

“Yes, my darling, thanks to Detective Watts, I am.”

Hopping down, Marie gives him a small curtsey as she goes over to retrieve her Chinese ring dagger.

“Marie!” Jack scolds.

Carefully standing up, he realises the weakness inside isn’t too bad. “Mr and Mrs O’Quinn, if I could ask the two of you some questions?”

Leading Mrs O’Quinn to the couch, he digs out his notes after they’ve sat down.

“Do you need a pen,” Jack asks.

“I think I’ve got one somewhere.”

“Your notes are unorganised. If you were in school with me, you’d get your knuckles rapped,” Marie declares.

Listening to her parents alternating between promising that will never happen again and trying to find out if it has happened again, he finds his pen.

“I find organising them to be a waste of time. Human thoughts are random, memories often take time and effort to recall, and so, why shouldn’t the notes that record them be as well?”

“None of us are human,” Marie responds.

Jack shifts.

“Besides Uncle Jack. And Johnny. And Granny. But besides Uncle Jack-”

“Baby, Mama’s human,” Mrs O’Quinn reminds her.

“Right,” is the suspicious agreement.

He finds himself rather curious what exactly she thinks her mother is and why, but he also realises now is likely not the time.

“Be that as it may, huh, has that always been such an odd turn of phrase? No matter. My main problem is physically losing my notes, not having trouble finding the ones I need when they’re not lost. Now, Mr and Mrs O’Quinn, I know you’re both tired, and you, Mr O’Quinn, aren’t fully recovered, but I need certain information as soon as possible.”

“As established,” he continues, “I’m a shifter, too. I’m not going to involve any of my human colleagues in this matter. But being a shifter and having shifters I care about nearby, the fact a largely shifter family was driven to seek shelter in the homes of human family members is concerning to me. Will you please tell me what exactly happened?”

They both take a deep breath, and then, there’s a non-verbal conversation between them and Jack.

Over on the chair, Marie is giving the impression of reading, but she might be following the conversation.

“I’m a nurse, Detective Watts, and I work during the day,” Mrs O’Quinn says. “Johnson is a plumber. He mainly works during the nights and evenings. If a water closet acts up at three in the morning, Johnson’s usually who’s called. He takes care of the children, especially baby Tory, during the day.”

“But the day before yesterday,” Mr O’Quinn says, “Aimee took her to work with her so that she could get vaccinations. We had Marie and Johnny vaccinated at six months, but when Tory was six months, she had already developed most of her teeth, and we decided to wait until she was a little older when it wouldn’t be so unusual for a baby to have started developing them.”

“And did anything unusual happen to you or your daughter at work, Mrs O’Quinn?”

“No. Her immunisations and vaccinations were administrated without issue, and at 11:30, I obtained permission to take a longer than usual lunch break so that I could take her back home. When I got home, however-” She shudders, and her husband wraps tighter around her.

“Take your time, Mrs O’Quinn. I’m sure this is very difficult for all of you.”

“Johnson was unconscious. I walked in, and the house was in disarray. I ran calling for him, poor Tory was terrified, and I found him lying on the bedroom floor. It was red wolfsbane. I managed to get enough of it out of his system, and then- I called Jack. He came and got Tory, took the children out of school, and left them with Aunt Edwina.”

He looks up. “Your mother?”

Jack nods.

Looking back at the couple, he says, “I’m glad you and the children were all physically unharmed, Mrs O’Quinn. Tell me about what you mean when you say the house was disarrayed.”

“Johnson,” she says.

“Hunters attacked me, Detective Watts. I don’t know how many there were, but several men broke into the house. They had weapons in addition to the wolfsbane. I tried to talk to them, but they just kept attacking. I tried to fight back, and things got broken. Eventually, I lost consciousness. I don’t- why. I don’t know.”

“They left a necklace hanging over our broken mirror in the bedroom,” Mrs O’Quinn says with quiet anger. “Johnson’s grandmother gave that to us for our first wedding anniversary. It’d been in their family for almost two hundred years. It was transported from France.”

“This necklace, did either of you bring it along?”

Mrs O’Quinn gets up.

“Mr O’Quinn, is there any chance some of the hunters were women?”

“Women hunters?” Mr O’Quinn gives him an incredulous look. “I know some hunter families have women in leadership roles, but as active hunters?”

“You never know. I’ve worked with two women doctors and a female private investigator.”

“I suppose you have a point there, but no, Detective Watts. These were all men.”

Mrs O’Quinn comes back over. “Here, detective.”

He wishes they hadn’t touched it, but- “Thank you, Mrs O’Quinn.” Digging out his handkerchief, he takes it, and sniffing it, he can’t smell any of the people who might have left it behind.

“Do you recognise it,” Jack asks.

He guesses his face wasn’t as calm as he strove to be inside.

“Yes. But necklaces can be lost, stolen, sold, or given away. I can’t be sure the people who left this are associated with the people I once had dealings with. Mrs O’Quinn, do you know the exact time you got home? The exact time you called Jack?”

“I got home at around twelve. It was 12:23 when I called Jack. I remember, because, the telephone operator told me. ‘Hello, it’s 12:23 this Thursday afternoon. How may I help you?’ Charming girl, she sounded so nervous. Her voice was a mixture of chirpy and- dread. I imagine she was rather young and new to the job.”

“Did you get her name?”

“No. I was shorter with her than I- I regret that now.”

“That’s pointless. You were under enormous stress, and you handled it better than many would have been able to.”

Based on the fury radiating off of Marie, he made a misstep in saying this.

He doubts this will make it any better, but he needs to. “I know Mister Elton was stolen, and as I told Jack, I don’t care. If it were in my discretion, I’d make the decision not to arrest a hungry human for stealing food. Other than this, however, if I were to set my colleagues on you, things about me, including the fact I’m not human, could come out.”

“They tainted our food,” Mrs O’Quinn quietly says. “Or rather, the food for Johnson and the girls. I don’t know about the food for Johnny and I. We have a root cellar, Detective Watts, that we store bodies in. I know several people who work with bodies, and we’ve come to arrangements. People who were healthy when alive, no close family, no one whose death was a matter of police investigation.”

“And I know people who’ve provided us with plenty of ice for a reasonable price,” Mr O’Quinn says. “We kept the bodies fresh by putting them in tubs filled with ice and kept it insulated with sawdust and straw. We have a garden down in the root cellar that further keeps the smell from travelling.”

“But they removed the bodies from the tub, all of them, and covered them with purple wolfsbane. Most of the ice was melted, I’m not sure how they did that so quickly, and the garden was largely ruined,” Mrs O’Quinn adds.

Jack speaks up. “After I got the children dropped off at my mother’s, I helped Aimee bring Johnson here. I applied mountain ash, and then-”

“I didn’t want to leave him,” Mrs O’Quinn says, “but the children would need to eat soon, and Jack stealing a body all by himself-”

“It’s okay, my love.” Mr O’Quinn pulls her close. “We all did the best we could, and thank God above, all three of our babies are unharmed and safe.”

“We went to a funeral home.” Jack gives the location. “We took an automobile taxi to a stable that, thankfully, was still open, and then, rented a carriage. It wasn’t easy to get them to agree to rent the carriage without a driver, but hopefully, we weren’t too suspicious. We didn’t give them our real names. I parked it near the funeral home.”

“I, uh, had changed into a pair of trousers, put my hair under one of Jack’s hats, and did some tricks to make it appear I didn’t have a woman’s chest. I broke a window, climbed inside, and after going through some of the files, I decided on Mister Elton. I’ve moved bodies before; it’s not easy, but I do have the strength for it. I got him on a wheeled gurney, and I took him out to the carriage. We left the gurney there.”

“After we got here,” Mrs O’Quinn continues, “I left to get the children. But Aunt Edwina-”

“It was decided Jonathon would stay,” Jack interrupts.

She nods. “And after I got back, Jack returned the carriage and took another car taxi back.”

He asks Jack, “Did you touch the gurney?”

“I wore gloves the whole time.”

“Good. Mrs O’Quinn, have you ever had your finger marks taken?”

“No.” Her face scrunches up, and wonderful amusement emanates from Jack and Mr O’Quinn.

“You have to understand, Detective Watts, I consider myself a woman of science. I’m willing to accept the possibility of many things that seem fantastical to most. Germs, I understand. Small creatures that can’t be seen unless special equipment is used has never struck me as implausible. I didn’t believe in werewolves and the like until I met my Johnson, but I wouldn’t have completely precluded the possibility there are people who have extremely advanced senses and can transform their bodies in ways most can’t if I’d considered it.”

“But invisible marks made by fingers touching things-” She shakes her head. “I know it’s true, but I can’t quite wrap my head around it. And meaning no disrespect to your profession, but for police to use invisible marks made visible by ink in some cases when the penalty is death for those found guilty, well, I cannot in good conscience support this happening.”

“You never told me your cousin was interesting,” he remarks to Jack.

“I’ve always tried to be very careful what I did and didn’t tell you about her.”

“Some hospitals in this area are requiring staff to submit finger marks. Even if your hospital never does, though it likely goes against my duties as an officer of a law to instruct a criminal on how to avoid being caught, I’d advise you to wear gloves, too, if you ever need to commit another crime.”

“Aimee isn’t a criminal,” Jack says.

“She’s not a recognised criminal, and from what I’ve seen, she’s not a bad person, either. However, there are many unrecognised criminals, and your cousin is among them. That’s not surprising. She’s pretty. Not beautiful, her face isn’t symmetrical enough, but pretty women often-”

Something is brewing in Jack, and for all she’s human, Mrs O’Quinn senses it, too.

“Detective Watts, I understand you need information, but it’s very late. If we could finish up sometime tomorrow? My cousin is incredibly tired, and my husband needs more rest before he can get back to full strength. Marie won’t go to sleep until we do, and the baby might wake wanting a bottle soon.”

“I think I have all the information I need, Mrs O’Quinn. Mr O’Quinn.” He hands Marie his notes.

Looking at them, her nose scrunches. “Doodles?”

“Hebrew and Hangul.”

“Jewish?”

“The Hebrew language is often known by Jewish people, yes. Having recently discovered that my mother was Jewish, and in a way, that makes me Jewish, I’ve been learning it.”

“It isn’t right what they do to baby boys. I’d never let-”

“Marie,” the parents hush her.

Putting his notes up, he says, “I’m not sure if I agree with male circumcision, either.” Thankfully, it wasn’t done to him, but realising it’s probably not appropriate to get into such a discussion yet Marie is likely about to ask, he continues, “And Hangul- there are people who have similar features to the Chinese but aren’t.”

“Japanese,” she decisively says. “And this girl in school, her eyes are pretty-” She squints. “But she’s not either.”

“Yes, but there are more than Chinese and Japanese. This is Korean. From a place called Korea. A king made this alphabet so that it would be easy for everyone, children and adults, to learn how to read and write.”

“Can anyone but you ‘round these parts read this?”

Before he can answer, it hits her, and warmth tinges her scent.

Moving a curl out of her face, he says, “It’s doubtful anyone who found them could, but even so, I tried to be careful with what I did and didn’t write. I promise you, Miss O’Quinn, I’m going to do my best to keep your family safe.”

Standing, he finishes, “Goodnight.”

“I haven’t put the mountain ash back down,” Jack says.

“Jack.” Mrs O’Quinn gives her cousin a look as she stands. Then, offering her hand, she says, “It was nice to meet you, Detective Watts. I’m glad Jack has such a caring friend.”

He shakes her hand. “It would have been nice if we’d met under better circumstances.” Nodding to Mr O’Quinn, he says to Marie, “Goodbye, Miss O’Quinn.”

“Thank you for helping my pa.”

“I’ll see the detective out,” Jack says.

“Yes, I doubt I need anymore information from any of you.”

Jack leads him over to the kitchen area. “Out of curiosity, when did you first start to suspect I was involved?”

“When you called me. I realise now, or I did earlier, how I knew when you were lying about Mister Paxton. I thought it was your scent, but that was only a part of it. Your heart and breathing was steady, but your tone’s different. I could hear the lie in it. Now and then.”

Making a defeated, exasperated motion, Jack sighs.

“What are their plans? Will they go back to their house? Stay here?”

“We’re still figuring things out. Or they are. They’re welcome here, but I’m not going to be a big part of their decision making.”

“I can’t do anything about your finger marks. Detective Murdoch routinely goes through the ones we have on file, and he’d notice some were missing. Knowing how dedicated he is to that particular branch of science, or pseudoscience as your charming cousin views it, he might even realise it was your set without much investigating.”

“Pseudoscience?”

“Astrology and the theory of creationism are examples.”

“I still argue the latter has validity.”

“Most creationists hold that gravity and the Earth being millions, if not billions, of years old is incompatible with biblical doctrine. You argue God laying down scientific building blocks that eventually led to the formation of life, the universe, and this Earth is possible. That science and the existence of some omnipotent, omnipresent deity isn’t mutually exclusive.”

“Anyway,” he continues, “I can do something about hers.”

“Llewellyn-” Shaking his head, Jack catches his eyes. “Don’t. I don’t know if you were assigned to this case or took it yourself, but- Give it to someone else. If they discover what happened, Aimee, Johnson, and I will try to protect each other. Hear my tone now: None of us will breathe your name. But you can’t obstruct an investigation any further than you have for our sake.”

“Mm. I think I can. And I will. For one thing, I’m not sure your eldest niece couldn’t find out where I live and show up with that Chinese ring dagger.”

Looking up from her book, Marie gives him an offended look, and it strikes him how much she’d fit perfectly in a gothic painting.

“We’re not really sure- She got lost in Chinatown one day, and when Aimee and Johnson found her, she had it. She was only four years old. No one they talked to had ever seen it or knew of anyone who might have owned it.”

“Jack, whatever is between you and I, I’m not going to let an innocent family be targeted.”

“And what do you think you can do if the hunters who did this are found? You won’t kill them, and you can’t bring them to human courts. All it’d do is connect an omega werewolf to the wendigos with human family members.”

“I need to know who they are.”

“Fine,” Jack says.

He wonders if this is the end of them.

It doesn’t matter. He’s resolved he’ll do what he needs to do.

“Just be careful. Chances are good they already know you’re involved. I’m sorry for that.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, I don’t know how many people you’ve interviewed so far, but you’re a rather distinctive detective, Llewellyn. Soon enough-”

“Only the funeral director so far.”

“What?” Jack gives him a strangely quizzical look. “You normally start interviewing people and studying the crime scene in person right away.”

“I was busy comparing finger marks.”

“Have you eaten?”

Realising- “I think I had a pretzel earlier.”

“I’ll fix you something.”

Grabbing Jack’s arm, he starts, “Jack-”

“Llewellyn, I’m fixing you something to eat, and you will eat it before you leave,” Jack firmly declares.

At some point, Marie has come over, and taking his hand, she leads him to the couch.

On the bed, Mr and Mrs O’Quinn are sleeping peacefully enough.

“Do you know how you happened to come into possession of the Chinese ring dagger?”

“I thought it was a wolf, but it was probably just a big dog. It ran at me, and this China lady picked me up. She took me inside somewhere, and she gave me sweets and taught me how to hold it. She said it’d help keep me safe. Then, she took me somewhere else, and Mama and Papa were there. They never saw her.”

“You can eat sweets?”

“Yeah. But I usually don’t. Sometimes, they make me a little sick, and sometimes, they just don’t really do anything. It’s like eating straw. I love eating eyeballs, but I’m not allowed to eat his.” She gestures to the tub.

“I’m sure your parents will get you some nice- eyeballs soon.”

She gives him a look that shows her unimpressed opinion just as clearly as her scent does. “Just because I eat eyeballs and have a China ring arrow doesn’t mean I’m that different from other people in my school. You’re odd. Why does my uncle like you?”

“Enough of that.” Setting a plate of a cheese and tomato sandwich with a bowl of pocket soup on his lap, Jack picks Marie up. “You need to try to get some sleep. Come on, get in bed with Mama and Papa.”

Eating, he focuses on Jack.

He might not have eaten in some time, but Jack hasn’t slept in even longer.

When he finishes the food, he assures Jack, “That was enough. Thank you.”

However, before he can leave, he finds himself in a chair with Marie in his lap and a book in his hands. “Please, read to me, Detective Watts,” she politely asks.

Nevertheless, he’s aware it’s not particularly a request.

“Marie-”

“I’ll read to her. Lie down, Jack. I won’t hurt her, and she won’t hurt me.”

Marie nods. “I just want someone to read to me, and you’re very tired, Uncle Jack.”

“Once I’m done, I’ll take her back to her parents before leaving.”

Sighing, after turning out the lights, Jack settles on the couch.

He begins reading, and soon, Marie’s warm little body is pressed against him, sound asleep.

He keeps reading until Jack fully enters a deep sleep, and then, carefully setting the book down, he closes his own eyes.

…

“Llewellyn, Marie, it’s time to get up.”

Coming to, he finds Marie has curled up into a ball in his lap.

As she wakes, Mrs O’Quinn comes over. “Up, baby. Here, Mama will take you to the table. Papa’s fixed some liver and spleen for you.”

“Here.” Jack hands him a wrapped package. “For your lunch. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough to make you breakfast.”

Noticing the baby is crawling around on the floor, he asks, “Do you have enough for you?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll eat later today.”

“Pa’s going to call his mother,” Marie announces.

“She’s your grandmother,” Mr O’Quinn says.

Having picked up the baby, Jack holds his hand out. “And after the way she’s treated their mother, she doesn’t get any access to them. Come on, precious. We’ll go call Granny and check your on brother.”

Marie took his hand before he even finished speaking, and Jack takes the two girls out.

Sharing a kiss with her husband, Mrs O’Quinn says, “I’ll walk the detective out.”

…

Once they’re some distance away from the building, Mrs O’Quinn stops him with a hand on his arm.

Her smell is nice enough, nowhere as captivating as Jack’s, but straightforward and strong.

“Let’s dispense of any double-talk. I know you and Jack are lovers. As such, I feel it prudent to remind you I’m married to a wendigo. Two of my children are wendigos, and my son could end up being one, too, someday.”

“And yet, you disapprove.”

“I didn’t say that. I worry for my cousin, detective. I have several brothers, but Jack’s always been more of a brother to me than they have. And so, mark my words, I don’t care you’re a detective, I don’t care you’re a werewolf, and I won’t care that I was extremely grateful for what you’ve done for my husband. I grew up on a farm. I’ve shot foxes, killed animals and skinned them, and I’ve gotten fairly good at bisecting human corpses. If I can dig up a grave, I’m sure I can dig a fresh one, too.”

“If you hurt my cousin, beyond the fact, sometimes, relationships simply must end, then, I will hurt you worse. He’s been hurt far too many times by humans with there being nothing I could do about it, but you, I can do something about. I know your name, I know where you work, and I can easily find out where you live.”

Feeling the urge to kiss her cheek, he does so. “I understand you, Mrs O’Quinn.”

“Feel free to call me Aimee.”

…

After leaving a message for George to relay to the inspector and Murdoch, he buys a train ticket.

The Argents own a gun manufacturing factory, and it’s easier than it should be for anyone, let alone a werewolf, to walk straight into the owner’s office.

Looking up from her paperwork, surprise crosses the matriarch’s face, and he supposes it’s lucky he hasn’t yet ended up with an arrow or worse in him.

“Monsieur Watts. This is a surprise.”

“Still keeping up your old accent, I hear.”

“I’m proud of my roots. Have you become the type who believes a settler should strive to lose their natural accent?”

“No.” Taking the necklace out of his pocket, he dangles it from his fingers. “I’ve kept finger marks of every hunter I could. That’s how I know one of yours recently attacked a wendigo-”

Putting on her glasses, there’s genuine incomprehension coming from her.

“A rougarou.”

“Oh. And this wendigo, did he or she fit within our code?”

“No one not human fits your code, Madame Argent.”

“We don’t keep prints left of finger marks filed. A human form of tagging for other humans, no? Or do you disagree?”

Restraining himself from pacing, he half-curses himself for coming.

A long time ago, Madame Argent held a gun to his head. Since then, she’s made it clear she has no respect for the police as an institution, and unlike most of the people he deals with who express similar sentiments, he can respect her reasons even with his lack of respect for her.

“He has a human wife and son. The son might not always be human, but he’s under the age of ten. His eldest daughter is, too, and his youngest’s primary method of independent travel is crawling.”

“Are the children okay,” she quietly asks. “I’ve killed children before, and I wept when I did, Monsieur Watts. It truly was unavoidable. No place could hold them, and they would have kept killing.”

“But it’s always a tragedy when children die or are simply broken. Men and women can leave behind a legacy. They’ve often made their mark in some permanent way even if no history book talks of it. Many have known or inspired romantic love. Children, when they die, it’s too big a question of, ‘What might have been?’”

“They’re unharmed. This wendigo is a good man. He works hard, loves his family, and has found a way for him and his two daughters to maintain a fairly ethical diet. Hunters broke into his home, severely wounded him, and destroyed their food supply. One of your hunters.”

Giving the name, he tosses her the necklace, and it’s a surprise when she doesn’t manage to catch it.

“Yes, I’m getting old, little- Monsieur Watts.”

Little Lewey, she used to call him despite his irritation.

“Unlike you, I don’t accept that as an excuse. Either this was done on your order, or you’ve got, at least, one rogue. I didn’t know this family until shortly after the crime happened. A human cousin of theirs once gave me a very special gift. He wasn’t hurt, but he was affected by what was done to his family.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally made some friends, even if they are mostly or all policemen.”

It occurs to him yet again why he’s always despised interacting with her. She’s either too easy to read or near impossible.

“Yes, I’d say I’m sure you’re glad a werewolf has ingratiated himself to humans, but like some of the policemen I work with, I’ve never been much for sarcasm, madame.”

“There’s no sarcasm in me saying this: You could not ingratiate yourself to anyone, even if your life literally depended on it.” Adjusting her glasses, she asks, “What do you want? What have you come for? What remedy are you seeking?”

If she’s sincere, and he can’t detect any insincerity or other forms of deception, he finds it somewhat comforting she doesn’t know about Miss Marsh.

“A warning, Madam Argent. I will fix this for the family of my acquaintance and leave your family out of this. However, if they’re ever attacked again by one of yours without irrefutable proof they’ve become a deadly danger to humans, if I find out you’ve pulled strings in the background to have the wife or my human friend held liable for the crimes they were forced to commit after the attack, I’ll cause significant trouble for your business.”

“I have proof of all the weapons you’ve been illegally importing and exporting. The massive shipments of drugs, they’re not illegal, and you may or may not be surprised to hear I don’t look forward to the day when certain narcotics start being criminalised and heavily regulated, but some of those drugs, I can prove they were used in cases where humans were incapacitated while other people, of course, not many will know they weren’t also human, ended up dead.”

“That would certainly cripple us,” she notes. Standing, she walks over to him, and he doesn’t resist when she pulls his hands out of his pockets. “You threatening me is nothing new. I’ve always known to take them seriously, Monsieur Watts. What I’m curious about is: What has shifted so? Boyhood hatred, powerful, but this- this is more visceral.”

“I’ve never hated you, Madame Argent. But knowing who you are and who I am now, I name you my enemy. There can be peace between enemies. I’m here to tell you that you’re the holder of it. Strike at me again, and you will have declared war. I might not be a soldier or a leader, but I am good at putting away criminals.”

The sudden sadness from her makes his skin itch.

“Yes, even if you have to lie or allow lies to stand, no? In America, the police were primarily formed to track down runaway slaves. Former plantations are now prisons. Do you know what colour most of the prisoners there are?”

Before he can respond, she says, “What you did to that Baker man, I have no personal judgement against you for it. You once asked of my perspective, but I doubt you’ve ever truly wanted it. So you truly do know me, however: I kill monsters, Monsieur Watts. Occasionally, they have been children. Unfortunately, humans have sometimes gotten caught in the crossfire. God will judge every life, big and small, intelligent and dumb, I’ve taken one day.”

“You throw humans in cages. You send them to be killed by other humans. Some of them, they’re just as bad or worse as the monsters I’ve killed. Many of them, however, they were desperate much like your friend’s family. They broke a rule that didn’t hurt anyone but offended society. They’re sick, needing treatment and possibly confinement but not malicious when in their right mind. Or they were innocent but ended up punished anyways due to incompetence or someone like you or your colleagues acting as judge or juror or both.”

Trying to contain his anger, knowing- “I’ve never held a gun to a twelve-year-old’s head.”

“That wasn’t done in judgement. My code is silent on humans hurting other humans, and thus, it stands that werewolves and other shifters hurting humans in the same way must be accepted. I won’t start a war over it. Heed me, however, Detective Watts: If you trigger the war, then, anything you’ve done to humans that my code doesn’t explicitly condemn, I will consider it morally acceptable to do the same to any humans you care for.”

“I have no intentions of striking first, Madame Argent. As I said, I’m simply here to give you a warning.”

“If that’s all, then, I have much to do.” She gestures to the door.

Starting to leave, he finds himself stopping. “Wasn’t the Argent family part of the slave trade?”

“Some of them, yes,” she answers, and he’s truly sorry for his words. The type of hurt this causes-

“Some, though, were strong abolitionists. I truly hope that the sins of the fathers and mothers aren’t applied when one is judged. Or if so, I pray the good other mothers and fathers did will be taken into consideration, too.”

He leaves.

…

“It would have been nice if you’d told me you were going to disappear,” Jack says.

It’s risky, he knows, but pushing Jack in, he kisses him before the door is fully closed. “I didn’t disappear. I went to see a hunter. If we understand one another, and I believe she and I do, your family should be safe.”

“A hunter? Llewellyn-”

“I don’t know if this hunter had knowledge of what happened to your family, if she played a part in it, but she and I have known one another for a long time. It’s unlikely her or any of those aligned with her will go after your cousin-in-law or nieces again. How are they?”

“Better. My mother’s helping as much as she can. Money will be extremely tight for the next few months, but they should be able to get through it. Going to a hunter-”

“Jack.” He catches his eyes. “I’m fine. I didn’t believe she’d hurt me, but if she’d tried, well, I’ve survived hunter attacks before.”

Curiosity mixes in with the worry.

“Would you like to get dinner? I could tell you about some of those times.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Jack agrees.

…

It rains during the night.

“Business is either going to be really good today or almost non-existent,” Jack grumbles.

“You think it’ll be the latter?”

“That’s what my experience tells me.” Jack kisses him. “Do you have an umbrella?”

“No, but I’ll-”

There’s a knock on the door, and his nose alerts him to George. “That’s Constable Crabtree.”

Jack disappears into the water closet.

He opens the door.

“Sir, I thought I might find you here. Good morning.”

“Good morning, George.”

“Sorry if I’m interrupting, but I was wondering if you’d care to walk to work with me. I have an umbrella.”

Coming out, Jack answers, “He’d be glad to, Constable. Here, let me make you lunch as a thank you.”

Ignoring George’s protests, Jack has quickly made lunch for both of them, and he himself has gotten dressed.

“Have a good day, Constable. Detective. I’ll, uh, probably be at my mother’s tonight, but stop by shop soon, Detective Watts.”

…

“Ah, Detective Watts,” Murdoch greets. “I wasn’t trying to get involved with your stolen corpse case, but I think I might have inadvertently found both the corpse and the man who stole it.”

Please, he thinks, not Mr O’Quinn.

Then, Madame Argent’s words are heavy in his head.

What if some completely innocent human has somehow-

“Oh? Very interesting, Detective. Tell me about it.”

“I think I’d better show you, instead. Miss Hart is with the body; she’s the one who called us, in fact. Unfortunately, the suspect is dead.”

Calling up memories of Jack’s smile and laugh and insistence chilli shouldn’t be made with beans, he recites, _Three things cannot long be hidden: The sun, the moon, and the truth. I control the wolf. The wolf is I. Upset I may be, the wolf will stay inside._

Murdoch’s squeeze on his shoulder is sympathetic.

…

They go to a graveyard, and it’s not any of the O’Quinns.

It’s the hunter whose finger marks were on the necklace.

Murdoch crosses himself, and despite the many things he finds objectionable about Catholicism, he’s tempted to repeat the gesture.

“What have you, Miss Hart,” Detective Murdoch asks.

Noticing how cold she is, he takes off the inspector’s coat, and though about to start roaring, Inspector Brackenreid coaxes it on her once he realises, too.

Her look at them is fond, appreciative, but inside, she’s untrusting and weary.

“Of course, I won’t know until I do a post-mortem, but at the moment, I’d say a rabid wolf or coyote attack is most likely.”

He can’t fault her for being so wrong. The Argents have a weapon made of wolf claws and teeth, and one of them went so far as to frame a werewolf by using it once.

She’s unlikely to find any animal saliva or fur, but with the rain they had last night-

Time of death, though, that will be interesting. This hunter was dead long before he was ever deposited in the rain.

He finds himself shivering at the twisted fear flowing through him.

“What about the body, Miss Hart? The stolen one, I mean. It’s here, too.”

But in much, much worse shape than it was in Jack’s tub.

“Detective Murdoch,” she politely prods.

“Yes. There’s evidence to suggest, after this man sold all the vital organs as well as some other parts of Mister Elton, he was attempting to bury him in this pauper’s grave.”

…

The fact Madame Argent is clever is not one he’s ever forgotten, but the sort of clever she is, somehow, that occasionally still manages to catch him off-guard.

Murdoch isn’t suspicious nor is Dr Hart. The pauper’s grave is far enough it’s easily possible the hunter was attacked, died, and not found for several days. The rain destroyed most evidence of the animal that attacked, but Dr Hart is sure wolf teeth and claws inflicted the wounds.

A horrible way to die, no medicine or alcohol was found in his system, and her cruelty, on the other hand, he thinks it should be surprising. She did this, he doesn’t doubt, to her own man, but- it’s simply not surprising.

She held a gun to a twelve-year-old’s head, and the fact she didn’t pull the trigger, would genuinely like Dr Hart and see her potential, that she gave Hubert and Danny sweets after she held a gun to his head- well, some things simply can’t be wiped away, can’t be redeemed. The sun, the moon, and the truth.

She’s a horrible person, but he’s fairly sure this is a twisted gesture of peace, an attempt to bind their treaty.

A war isn’t something she’s prepared for at the moment.

Dr Hart, Murdoch, and the inspector talk about the victim’s lack of family and the large amount of money he had on his person. With him not having any family they’ve been able to locate as well as the lack of any evidence he stole it, some of it will go towards a proper grave for him, but the rest-

“I’m working on a new case. If you’d like me to drop it off somewhere while I’m walking the city, I’d be happy to,” he offers.

A charity is decided on, and the money is given to him with no suspicion.

The thought he’s as bad as her is objectively untrue, but there’s some merit to it all the same.

Going to the charity, he gives them all the money in his wallet, and then, has a promissory note written up for the rest of the money that’s currently in his pocket.

…

Keeping his shoes on, he tosses the pouch to Jack. “Here.”

“What-” Jack opens the pouch. “Llewellyn?”

“Let’s sit.”

They do.

“Take however much you spent, and then, give the rest to Mrs O’Quinn. It’s- One of the hunters who attacked your cousin-in-law is dead.”

“Dead?”

He gets Jack’s hand flattened against his heart. “I’d say it wasn’t my doing, but that could be arguable in a court of law. I promise you, Jack, I’ve never murdered anyone. I didn’t intend for this to happen. However, after my visit with the hunter I mentioned, she had him killed.”

“Long story short, it’s been ruled an animal attack, and if you want to get more into that later, we can, but for right now, the important thing is, that was on his person when he was found. If he has a family, she’ll take care of them. I know that. You need to help your cousin take care of hers.”

Setting the pouch aside, Jack kisses him, and there’s painful sadness but no condemnation.

…

He’s a detective who spent most of his day trying to find a pig.

“Luckily, Mrs Brackenreid likes me too much to find a different butcher.”

Helping Jack get undressed, he comments, “That lamb you found for them was rather tasty.”

“Tom and I are just lucky you didn’t meet the lamb when it was still alive, or else, he’d have had no meat for his-”

“Hāngī.”

Laughing, Jack kisses him, and as nice as it is, he simply isn’t up for anything more.

“Here.” Finding a nightgown, he hands it over. “Best get to bed. I won’t be joining you. Now that the pig matter is settled, I do have more important cases that are soon going to need my attention.”

“You could-” Getting into bed, Jack shrugs. “Goodnight, Llewellyn.”

“Goodnight, Jack. Sleep well.” With one last kiss, he leaves.

…

Jack kissed him in a darkened alley, and he knows his thoughts should be more towards the dead man they found than reliving the memories of how he felt when Jack did this.

“Oi, Watts, how are you and that Detective Edwards progressing on your robbery?”

“We’re making headway, sir. Unlike some of those ignorami at Station 1, he seems to be an intelligent, thorough fellow.”

Nearby, the gloom rolling off George is almost unbearable, and he remembers the unfortunate postponement of George’s book tour.

Going over, he sits down. “Uh, Constable Crabtree- in a night or two, I might need to endeavour upon Mister Walker’s hospitality again. Money has yet again gotten sparse. He’ll likely make hot sausages with chilli. If you and Miss Newsome would care to join us-”

George brightens considerably. “Thank you, sir. I’ll talk to Effie about it.”

…

Edwards runs into him and Jack at a pub, and after they’ve had several pints, he leaves.

“He didn’t like me,” Jack comments.

“I’m not sure Detective Edwards disliked you so much as he was a bit awkward. Surely, we can’t hold that against him. Our case should be solved soon. I’ll get him a nice bottle of wine.”

Unlike George, it’s vitally important that, like Inspector Brackenreid, Edwards never finds out about them, but he thinks, perhaps, he can make an ally out of the detective. There’s certainly a dearth of those hailing from Station 1.

Jack’s worry and uncertainty doesn’t abate, and this is one of those times he’s reminded why he’s never had any long-term courtships.

Knowing this one, too, might come to end, he braces himself. “This was a spur of the moment action on my part, and I’m aware I should have consulted you, but, uh, I more-or-less invited Constable Crabtree and Miss Newsome to be our, your, dinner guests in a few nights time.”

Rather than anger, there’s puzzlement coming from Jack. “That’s- interesting. What exactly brought this about?”

“George’s scent was almost intolerably blue. Not blue like a child’s drawing of the ocean, blue like that strain of wolfsbane that causes seizures. He loves hot sausages, and I ended up saying you’d likely be making some soon. And that I was having money troubles again, hence, why I would be there.”

“I don’t object,” Jack says. “But Llewellyn, you don’t like the hot sausages I make, with or without chilli.” Shaking his head, Jack adds, “And you’re not tainting a perfectly made pot of chilli with beans.”

“I could make a sandwich for myself.”

Shaking his head again, Jack squeezes his hand under the table. “Just tell me the exact night, and I’ll be happy to host them for dinner. I’ll make you some minced pork rice. You’re not having bizarre dreams due to not having enough to eat before going to bed when I’m the one providing the meal.”

“That’s- I am aware I should have discussed this with you before extending such an invitation, Jack.”

Jack adjusts his tie. “Llewellyn, sometimes, things are going to come up with your colleagues, just like sometimes, my cousin-in-law is going to drop his cranky daughter and her little brother off with only thirty minutes of forewarning on the day we planned to go to a museum. And I know you find me ridiculous for refusing to take them to the museum-”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘ridiculous’.”

“But I would have understood if you’d gone by yourself or simply found better use of your time than spending the day with the three of us.”

“It was a pleasant day. Miss O’Quinn’s crankiness was simply the product of her hunger. Once she had her meal, she was a formidable opponent.”

Johnny had happily eaten the rabbit stew Jack had made for him and devoured the brownies Mr Vickers refused to let Jack pay for, but Marie had fussed for a good ten minutes about the tableware Jack had since, she explained, cutting a human heart without a certain type of fork is a sign of utter barbarism.

Eyeballs, however, it was made plain, do not need to be eaten with any sort of cutlery, and she didn’t appreciate her brother trying to argue otherwise.

Part of him does suspect her irritability might have had roots in the fact Jack refused to allow her to eat the eyeballs before she finished, at least, half of the heart.

“I, still, however, charge you and her brother as cowards for not admitting I clearly won our chess game.”

“Cowards, sensible, call us what you will. I’m not saying she won, but I am saying, she wasn’t wrong in, you admitted yourself, arguing there was no rule against her actions.”

He suddenly strongly wishes he could kiss Jack right here in the pub.

“Could I spend the night at your place tonight?”

“I’d like that,” Jack answers.

…

Staring at the wine puddle on the floor isn’t going to help anything.

Edwards somehow figured out he and Jack are- Jack’s in a cell at Station 1.

All Edwards did to him is break the bottle he tried to offer. Human Jack, non-copper Jack, and despite knowing she wouldn’t use such terminology, it’s in Madame Argent’s voice he hears, is in a cell.

Go get him, a different part of him urges. Do something.

He finds himself walking, and-

The visual sight of blood, cuts, and bruising hits him before any smells do.

Jack’s words aren’t as biteful as they should be when he says, “Your friend brought me in here last night. Let some of the others know who and what I was.”

The sun, the moon, and the truth are three things that cannot long be hidden.

He has claws, and drawing blood, hopefully discreetly, but it’s unimportant, he places his hand on Jack’s arm. The bloodied claw goes through the shirt easily enough, and piercing the skin, he thinks, _My spark to him._ _Spark to pain. Pain in exchange for spark. His pain, my health, so be the exchange._

There’s a shiver, and Jack stands straighter.

The blood will only do so much. It’s not a proper exchange by any means.

At Jack’s curiosity, he promises, “I’m going to get you out.”

“No,” is the incomprehensibly firm response. “Just let me handle it. You can’t be implicated.”

“He already suspects me.”

The truth cannot long be hidden.

Privately, part of him has always doubted this. After all, the world at large still doesn’t know about shifters and druids.

Now, Jack promises to lie, to say he was immune to Jack’s advances.

Jack, who let him in past the mountain ash without needing to be convinced but refused to kiss him first. Jack, who needed to be convinced to let him past the mountain ash and kissed him with apology heavy on his tongue later on.

He’s always hated it when he’s been struck with the urge to laugh at things that aren’t funny in the slightest.

“You’re a policeman, Llewellyn. Don’t throw that away.”

“I’ll do what I need to do for myself,” he finds himself responding, and he leaves before Jack can react.

…

Hubert doesn’t know, and Danny didn’t. He himself didn’t exactly know; when he realised he might have the propensity for desiring both women and men, he didn’t know if that was normal or not. It took time, always being careful with what he said, interacting with those in shifter communities for him to find out he was fairly normal for a shifter in that regard.

A human, no, he knew he wasn’t. For all the olden Greeks had certain views, Christian-based societies were rather clear on what sorts of romances were and weren’t acceptable, never mind any feelings.

He doesn’t know how they would have felt. He’d like to think they would have been easily accepting, but he doesn’t know this.

Constable Jackson was a good man, a kind friend, but he’s stuck with the realisation Constable Jackson might have been just as disapproving, though, hopefully, less cruel in expressing it, as Edwards.

George is kind, but- he needs someone more powerful to help him. George might not even be willing, but if so, there’s not much a third-class constable can do in an instance such as this.

Inspector Brackenreid likes Jack, but Detective Scott is no longer a detective.

It’s his only real option, he knows.

And so, he finds himself in the inspector’s office.

“Jack Walker is being held in custody in Station 1’s cells.”

“On what charge?”

The inspector already suspects the answer even before, “Indecency,” leaves his mouth, and when it does, there’s pity along with something uglier mixed in.

“I don’t know what I can do about it.”

You’ve gone against the rules for Murdoch, for Dr Ogden, for George, and even for me. Perhaps, we deserved it, and perhaps, we didn’t, but- “He’s a good man.”

“If he’s guilty of what he’s charged with, my hands are tied.”

A logical argument, yes, and his counter-

Jack has no say in the laws aside from the fact he’s allowed the vote and, if he desired to, could’ve once entered politics as a vocation. He’s not in as much danger as Drs James and Hart are on a daily basis, but right or wrong, those such as he himself and the inspector have a large amount of discretion when it comes to who is to be given mercy and who is to pay the full consequences of going against the laws, or in some cases, of who is merely suspected of having gone against them.

He’s going to have to do something else.

Starting to walk out, however, it hits him there is one more card he could play, an extremely dangerous one that could make him an enemy of human society and someone few shifters would associate with due to their own need to not have human society against them.

Never mind this job, any decent job could be lost to him. Humans might end up putting him in a cage despite knowing nothing of his non-human status, and even if he could escape and evade capture, if he ever truly harmed a human while living such a desperate, brutal life, hunters would rapidly descend.

Clouds and fog can cover the sun and moon, and playing this card might end up making things worse for Jack.

Right is still right even when no one can see it, and wrong is still wrong even if it’s not labelled as such.

I don’t want to be brave, hits him. Not like this.

That’s just the simple truth of it.

Then, don’t be, goes through his head. Be a coward.

This shouldn’t make me a coward.

What makes one person cowardly doesn’t always hold for someone else, he knows. It’s an oddity of life he’d never truly understood until now. Women are often allowed to be much more afraid of death and careful in trying to avoid it than men; sometimes, they’re even considered brave in the ways they avoid it that would have men ridiculed or worse. Children crying out of fear of the dark is understandable by any reasonable adult, adults who do are often labelled pathetic by those reasonable peers of theirs.

Someone else not playing this card, he can’t judge them without knowing many intimate facts.

However, he knows himself intimately well.

Stopping, he focuses on making his voice strong, “Then, charge me.”

“What?”

He wonders if, deep inside, some part of the inspector suspected.

“I’m as indecent as Jack Walker. Charge me.”

Looking around as if he just confessed to something along the lines of being a werewolf, Inspector Brackenreid declares, “You shouldn’t have told me that.”

“Well, I did.”

“Bloody hell, Watts.”

“Jack Walker should not be persecuted for being a human being. So, Inspector, I leave it to you to do what you think is right.”

Part of him realises how unfair this is to the inspector, but the memory of Jack’s blood makes those thoughts silent.

Going out the open door, he can’t help but slam it a bit as he leaves.

…

He’s considering what else he can do when- Jack calls.

Jack has been released.

Going to the phone booth Jack is at, he helps Jack get home, and once there, he orders, “Be still.”

He puts his hand on a non-damaged part of Jack’s face, and not listening, Jack shifts, “Llewellyn-”

“This will help.”

“No. Don’t.” Jack moves away. “Johnson told me what you did, it either takes away life from the shifter or the person they’re doing it to.”

“When I was young, another werewolf did this for me. It might have saved my life. I’ll tell you more about that sometime. For now, what you need to know is, he had me promise not to do the same thing with abandon. I haven’t. Life not mine was given to me. I’m not going to die any time soon from doing this for you, Jack. I’m sharing some of that life with someone very important to me.”

Uneasy, Jack nevertheless lets him place his hand back.

_My spark to his. Spark to pain. Pain in exchange for spark. His pain, my health, so be the exchange._

Pain floods him, and Jack shudders, but he can hear, inside, parts of Jack are rapidly healing and bidding the rest of his body to speed up its healing process.

When the urge to break away hits, he follows it.

“It’ll take time, but you should heal without scarring. Don’t argue with me, you need to eat, and I’ll be the one to fix the food. First, though, let’s get you changed.”

They get Jack bathed and his injuries all tended to. After Jack’s changed into a nightgown, he cooks some ham and potatoes, and making some tea, he adds plenty of milk. Jack refuses to drink milk by itself, but he’ll tolerate it in tea, though, he prefers lemon.

If there were any lemons or lemon juice left, he’d add it, too.

While Jack eats, he bathes himself, and afterwards, looking in the mirror, he finds himself truly studying his face.

Boyhood was long ago, a fact he recognised soon after leaving that state of being, but until now, seeing the man he is in the mirror, he hadn’t registered the fact that a man hadn’t replaced the boy.

This man isn’t a great man, but he feels no deep shame nor revulsion when studying himself, and he decides he’s going to try his best to make sure he never does.

Not bothering to get dressed, he leaves the water closet in his undershirt. “I’m staying here the night. Do you want me to take the couch? I wouldn’t mind.”

“No. Help me get my gown off.”

Doing so, he gets Jack settled in bed. Thankfully, it’s warm enough that, if the sheets are too discomforting for Jack’s sore skin, Jack won’t get cold.

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell my mother. Or Aimee. If I could keep my mother quiet, then, I could manage to not see Aimee until this- but knowing my mother.” He sighs.

“I’m sorry, Jack. Anything I can do, I will.”

“Llewellyn.” Jack holds his eyes. “This has become much more dangerous for both of us. Edwards might be a bigger problem. Even if he’s not, I’ve been arrested three times. Anyone looking closely at me, if you’re in contact with me, they’ll wonder. Suspect. You once having a vague acquaintance, that’s easy enough to defend.”

Vague acquaintance, he thinks that might be more insulting than the words typically used to demean homosexual men.

“If you feel it’s best we end things, I won’t try to persuade you differently, but I don’t want that, Jack.”

“It’s not a matter of want. We’re both smart enough to-”

“I’m an intellectual, certainly, but I don’t know where you’ve gotten the idea I’m smart,” he interrupts. “I once let a murder suspect run an errand merely on his word he’d return. Before that, I took a job at one of the worst constabularies in this city. And after that, I played a game of chess against a little girl who once threatened me with a Chinese ring dagger and was somehow surprised when she declared herself the winner with the argument her move wasn’t explicitly against any of the game’s established rules.”

Taking a ragged breath, Jack orders, “No more making me laugh tonight.”

“I want you, and I want to be yours. I know things won’t be easy, but I’m willing to try if you are.”

“I’m really not sure what you are, Llewellyn. What you’re doing here.”

“I’m just a man in- a situation that’s less than ideal but that I have a feeling will turn out all for the best. And I’m here, because, I don’t want to spend the night in a cold bed worrying about you.”

“Then, we’ll need to try to figure out how to better protect ourselves soon,” Jack says. “For now, however, let’s try to get some sleep.”

The twisting in his heart isn’t painful, but it is almost unbearably warm.

He carefully kisses Jack. “If you’d rather I take the couch, I truly don’t mind.”

“No.”

Usually, he curls around Jack, but now, he carefully eases himself onto his stomach near enough he can feel the warmth radiating from Jack and isn’t too close to the edge of the bed but far enough Jack has room to move without his injured body automatically making contact with his own.

“Goodnight, Llewellyn,” Jack softly says.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

Soon, Jack is peacefully sleeping, and he finds himself following.

…

Epilogue

Opening the door of a broken down carriage, a man gives an emerging Madame Argent a bundle of papers. “You were right, my lady. Our man in Station House 4 confirmed Watts is- with that butcher. He, um, confessed this to his inspector. With the inspector’s office door wide open.”

A small smirk crosses her face. “He confessed nothing, young one. ‘Confession’ has certain connotations associated with it.”

“He could have been a little more discreet.”

“No, he really couldn’t have been,” she replies. “Brave man, that boy has become. Often, the bravest are the ones who fall first. And this butcher?”

“Human, without a doubt. My lady, why- What he does is unnatural, an offence against God, but what was done to him, he didn’t deserve that. No one does. Why didn’t you allow us to protect him?”

They stop at an intersection.

“Some call shifters ‘animals’ as an insult. I’ve never done so. Humans and shifters are the two most evolved animals on this planet, young one. And God made us to all have certain carnal urges. The ones who rape, who defile children, who carelessly or maliciously spread disease, those are offences. But,” she taps her glasses, “my wearing these could be said to be more unnatural than what that butcher and our Llewellyn do.”

“And,” they begin walking, “for all I wish he hadn’t been hurt in such a way, it helped us to see how certain things played out. Three things make a boy into a man: Simple age, falling in love, or killing a member of one of the most two evolved animals on this planet.”

“You wanted to see if he’s in love? My lady, two men, they can be lovers, but they can’t love the way a man and women can love.”

“No. I didn’t do this to see what he felt for the butcher. Whatever the answer, how he reacted, that was important. I needed to know what kind of man he’s become.”

Arriving at a building, they stop.

“Maintain surveillance on the rougarou and his family. And,” her voice sharpens, “if necessary, direct those charged with the task to a certain grave.”

He winces. “Again, I apologise for that, my lady.”

“They made their own choices. Just make sure it’s understood, choices have consequences. The butcher, his cousin, her son, the baby, they were put at risk, and our code does not tolerate any hunter who places innocent women and children in danger.”

“What about the little girl, not the baby, the oldest child?”

“She might be useful someday. I don’t tolerate those who take risks that might deprive me of potential assets.”

He bows his head. “My lady.”

Adjusting the files, she nods, and he opens the door for her. “I’ll have a horse from the stable sent for you, and I’ll ensure the ones returned aren’t ill-treated.”

“Thank you. These modern carriages simply can’t be relied on. I knew that, and yet-” She shakes her head.

Then, she goes inside, and knocking on a door, she enters when bidden.

Glenn Scott stands. “How may I help you, ma’am?”

Using a lighter accent, she says, “I’m not sure how to address you, Monsieur. My family moved me to Canada when I was young, and it seems everyone has different names for police. Besides, I’m told, though you might help me find someone I’m looking for, you are not an American policeman.”

“No, ma’am. I’m a private investigator. Normal address is fine. Would you like to sit?”

She does. “A girl, a young woman, now, came to this country. She’s from Canada, too. Born there, but she left her home many years ago. I have the money to pay your fee; my blessed papa,” she crosses herself, “left instructions that a portion of his company’s profits would be given to me as an allowance.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. How should I address you, ma’am?”

She gives her name.

“And this woman, what can you tell me about her?”

Setting a picture on his desk, she says, “Her name is Clarissa Watts. Or was. For all I know, she’s married now or simply changed it.”


End file.
